“I just want us to know one another better.” He stiffens. “You know it’s important.”
Dr. Tregear’s mouth purses, and her eyes squint like she’s studying us. “Would you say you married in haste without knowing one another well?”
“No!” we both blurt.
“She’s just acting different,” Roman says.
“Ha! Me?” I snap—he is most definitely not the old Roman.
“I just mean she’s an artist. Yet she isn’t creating.”
I blink. I hadn’t realized Roman was bothered so much by my lack of crafting. “I don’t feel like it right now.”
“Why not, Stella?” Dr. Tregear asks.
But I don’t have an answer for that. At least, not one I like admitting to. I’m not myself right now—in every possible way. I’m married. I’m lying to my family as well as Roman. I’m living in Nevada. So many reasons—and yet not one that seems to make sense in my head.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I’m not sure if it’s something I’ll do anymore.”
“That’s insane,” Roman says, whirling on me.
“It’s not,” I tell him. He isn’t trying to pay bills on “thingy-ma-bobs.”
“Why do you say that, Roman?” Dr. Tregear asks.
“She’s brilliant, and she isn’t allowed to quit.”
“Not allowed?” My brows furrow. “You can’t?—”
“Roman, Stella’s allowed to do whatever she wants.” Dr. Tregear pushes her glasses up from the end of her nose.
“I’ve noticed,” he grunts, peering back at the computer.
“Let’s move on,” she says, and I think Roman and I both might be failing now. “How would you describe the level of intimacy in your relationship?”
I balk. “Nonexistent.”
“Really?” Dr. Tregear says, and she jots a note down in her book, her hand scribbling furiously.
“Not nonexistent.” Roman’s words are quick.
Dr. Tregear slides her glasses from her face, then looks from me to Roman. “So, you are active partners?”
I grunt. What do I care? I’m failing this session. “Nope.”
“Not recently active. But we areintimate,” Roman says, playing the faithful husband role.
“Stella, you are unsatisfied?”
“Meh.” I exhale a long breath, feeling weary. I lean back against the couch and cross my legs. I might be moresatisfied if Roman had let fifteen-year-old Stella have one win by actually kissing his bride.
“Um, notmeh. Never meh,” Roman says, waving his hands in a clear no sign.
I lift one shoulder.
“Let’s talk about it,” Dr. Tregear says, folding her hands together and resting them on her desk.
“Average,” I say with a decisive nod. That’s generous for a barely kiss to the corner of my lips.
